Article by Steve Bidduph,
published in The Times, 9 November 1998
When we imagine our children as adults, we hope that they will stay friends with us until the end of our days. It doesn't seem too much to hope for ­ yet the record, especially between fathers and their adult sons, hasn't been good. Next time you're with a group of men ask how they get along with their fathers.
I have done this with several thousand men this year and have discovered that about 30 per cent of Australian males rarely, if ever, speak to their fathers. "It's history", "pointless", "a waste of time". They are, to put it simply, estranged. Another 30 per cent still see their fathers, but every exchange is negative, full of put-downs, like two bears in a pit slashing at each other.
Another 30 per cent, the "nice" men, have a token friendship with their dads ­ visiting once a fortnight but rarely discussing anything deeper than lawnmowers. There is a curious mixture of utter boredom and a yearning for something more meaningful that never happens.
That leaves 10 per cent of men, at most, who have a sustaining relationship with their fathers. When problems get them down, they talk to their dads. This is rare in modern families, yet surely it should be the norm? Women and their fathers have differences, too, and sometimes women and their mothers. But it's possible, with care, to heal these rifts ­ and important to our ultimate happiness that we do.
Since writing my last book, Manhood, a steady flow of mail has arrived reporting breakthroughs between adult men and their fathers. It is an area of enormous emotional power and the letters reflect this. It is clear that many men and women are making this journey back to find "the human being behind their father's mask".
Gerald, at 41, was having trouble in his life. His marriage was staggering, his career was disintegrating. His kids were getting into trouble at school. As sometimes happens for men around this age, his life seemed to be going down the tubes. But what filled his thoughts as he tossed in bed at night was not his present dilemmas but episodes from his childhood, all of them featuring aggravation with his father. These thoughts came to mind again and again until he thought he must be going mad.
When we talked, I asked if he had considered visiting his father and "having it out" with him. He took up the suggestion and bought a ticket to Perth. When he arrived at his parents' home, things were naturally awkward. At the meal table he broached the question of his childhood and his father gave him a stony look. After a few seconds, the old man simply stood up and walked from the room. Gerard was angry and walked after him. To his amazement, his father took the car keys and drove off. Discussion was impossible. My friend made the long flight home several days later, dejected.
A few months later, his mother phoned to say that his father was in intensive care after a major heart attack. He flew back to Perth, caught a cab to the hospital and walked into the room where his father lay. He stood over the old man and began verbally lashing out: "Why did you do this? Why did you do that?"
The old man rallied, sitting up in bed. He began to bluster out his defence. Missing parts of the story came out. They talked for several hours. Some of it was comfortable, but some of it less so. Eventually things reached a natural ending. The two men shook hands and said goodbye, knowing it was probably goodbye. Gerard returned home. He told me that he was enormously pleased to have had the conversation, not least because his father died soon afterwards. When I next met him, his face had softened and he seemed slower and easier in himself.
Clearly, deathbed confrontations are not the best way to achieve this. And the initiative does not have to be made by the younger person. Older men and women are also opening up these confrontations now. They ask their offspring: "What do you think of your childhood now?" "Are there things you have always wanted to tell or ask me?" "What haven't I told you that might make things clearer?"
How can you tell if you really need to talk to your parents? Here is a simple test. Imagine you learn that your parents have been killed in an accident. After the initial shock dies down, how do you feel? What do you regret not asking them? Not telling them? What is left unsaid?
Even a few minutes of thought here should be enough to tell you if you have work to do. To reopen communication with a father, mother or other family member, and do so safely, takes real care.
First, you have to set the scene. Get away from familiar environments. Find neutral ground ­ taking a day trip or a weekend away together is a good idea. Good conversations come in fits and starts and need breathing space to digest what is being said. Fathers in particular respond better if you do something together ­ shared activity relaxes men and lessens the intensity of face-to-face confrontation. Choose your moment and speak up.
"When you compare me to my brother it makes me feel very bad. I remember you doing that often when I was a child and it made me hate my brother, even though he's a good bloke. I would like you never ever to do that again."
Don't expect to be heard the first time. You may encounter blanket denial, so have ready some instances to illustrate your point. Cornered like this, a parent may have a tantrum, stage an emotional collapse or threaten to throw you out. One man recalled writing a letter, telling his father that he had been critical and negative throughout his childhood and he wished that he could hear some praise; that he loved his father, but he did not feel in any way close to him. The father wrote back saying: "If that's how you feel, then obviously I have no place in your life. I won't bother you again."
To his great credit, the son wrote back and said: "Don't be stupid ­ there are small but important changes. Let's meet and work on it some more. The detail is important, doing the work, and not just arriving at the destination.
Two questions seem to form the core of this conversation. These are: "What was it really like for you when we were children ­ what were you really experiencing, what was the whole story we couldn't be told as kids?" And the second question goes back further still ­ what was their emotional history, the truth about their marriage, the things they cut out of the "official history", cutting us off from their real self in the process?
A one-to-one conversation is best ­ good communication rarely takes place in groups, especially family groups. When the whole family is together, old patterns usually take over. Occasionally two siblings can tackle a parent if they are "on side" and the task is difficult. Don't have your partner or children around or your parent will feel that he or she must keep up appearances.
I suspect that you cannot do this work when you are young ­ under 30, say. A degree of emotional independence has to be achieved and a degree of humility that is not common in the young. If you are materially or emotionally dependent on your parents you can hardly afford to rattle the cage. If you have been wounded by childhood abuse, then encountering your parents comes much further down the track.
Does everyone have to do this? Probably. This sorting out with the parents may be the major mid-life ritual, the final step into adulthood. As this creeps into the collective mind, one pictures millions of elderly parents waiting in trepidation for "The Conversation". Woe betide the younger person who thinks he or she sits in judgment on the performance of their elders without self-examination or sharing of responsibility. You may well have angers, sorrows, wounds to declare but begin with the commitment to understand the other person's experiences. How that person's recollection differs from yours. Why they acted like they did.
Expect some resistance or skilful deflection. Comments such as "It's all in the past" and "You don't understand" should be met with "Give me a chance". There is no doubt that this is a dangerous exercise. You may fear physical or emotional harm. You may want to start with small issues only. If you find yourself losing the plot, go for a walk on your own or phone a friend.
When I first wanted to tackle my parents about aspects of my childhood, I found it deeply frightening. My partner helped by asking what was the worst that could happen ­ which of course was total estrangement. This was not likely and since we had become quite distant, I had little to lose and everything to gain.
What returns in the end is perspective ­ the most glorious of mental gifts. Once resentments are cleaned, what often remains is a huge appreciation. Many parents go to their graves believing that they have failed, precisely because of the inter-generational rifts. They know they are not liked by their offspring and this makes for great sadness.
This week a man wrote to me from England, where he went to say farewell to his father. I quote from his letter: "We sat during the last three weeks of his life in splendid silence but with total understanding. His only words would be that he was not very good at conversation. The most amazing thing was that towards the end I had to help him go to the toilet, and we always held hands, and not in the way I had ever held hands with anyone before. If I say the roles of father and son were reversed I think you will understand."
STEVE BIDDULPH